


Indecent

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Kink Meme, Older Characters, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 15:35:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ned challenges Jaime to a combat to the death for dishonoring his daughter.  Alternate universe, older!Sansa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indecent

He’d been deceived. 

This is his defense when Cersei comes to him with rage flickering in her green eyes, when she digs her fingernails into his bicep and asks why he would do such a thing, how he could even think of it.

Jaime looks his sister full in the face, bringing his hands up to cup the sides of her head as he repeats the promise again and again- “I’d have sworn it was you. It was the drink...I could barely keep to my feet, could barely see in front of me...I swear it, Cersei, I thought it was you.”

And it isn’t a lie, not exactly.

But it isn’t quite the truth, either.

Benjen Stark had offered him the coal-black liquor with a twinkle of challenge in his eye, paired with a sideways grin- _a Stark with a sense of humor? Will wonders never cease?_

“Might be a bit potent for you southerners- we brew it up at the Wall, and it keeps our boys warmer than anything else. But it’s strong stuff...can be dangerous if you aren’t used to it.”

The younger Stark raised his eyebrows before taking a long drink from his mug, and Jaime and Tyrion responded by clinking their glasses together and emptying them of the thick, evil-looking liquid in one gulp. 

Jaime still cannot tell how he found himself in that darkened corridor; he knows only that his legs and arms felt impossibly heavy, his vision sharpened and blurred in erratic time, and a strange, high-pitched buzzing sounded mercilessly in his ears. 

And then he saw her, silhouetted in the low torchlight, and a warm, warm wave of pleasure engulfed him completely. She approached him slowly, tentatively- Cersei likes to play the coquette sometimes, and although it never ceases to vex him, he indulges her whims, always. 

She took one step, two steps- his blood burned as a soft, sylvan aroma wafted in his direction (when he thinks of it later, he’ll realize his folly; Cersei never favored pine-based fragrances). The firelight limned her body in gold, tracing her soft curves, glowing bright on her hair, though the rest of her remained in shadow. 

And he’d been patient for long enough. He reached out and wrapped an arm around her tiny waist, roughly pulling her to him before turning until her back pressed against the stone wall. She twisted in his grasp, began to release a peep of objection, but he silenced her with a harsh kiss; there was no one there, no one to see, and he was so tired of hiding, so tired of being without her...

He slid his tongue into her mouth and tasted the same tang of liquor that lingered in his own. Jaime smiled and tightened his hand around the back of her neck; Cersei would still fight him when she’d been drinking, would still have her tiresome protestations about caution, but she would succumb to his touch much more quickly and more readily. 

Her skin was warm and flushed, and she teetered a little even as he held her to the wall. But her mouth began to move beneath his, and his cock swelled in his breeches when she brushed his tongue with hers, her fingernails sinking into his shoulders.

But then she broke away to take a breath, and his vision cleared just enough to send a hard pang of dismay to his belly. The hair was too dark, the eyes too light-  _it’s not her...oh Gods, it’s not her..._

Jaime began to withdraw, but then another idea crept its way into his drink-sodden brain, a notion too wicked and delicious to ignore.  _Auburn hair and blue eyes...you’ve grown tired of your cold northern husband and your cold northern bed, have you, Lady Stark?_  A burst of memory flashed in his dull field of vision, of that red-haired girl in Riverrun with her trilling laugh and teasing kisses. He closed the distance between them and claimed her mouth again; Lady Catelyn gasped when he rocked his hips into the space between her legs, but she did not try to tilt away. 

His hands traced down her body and back up again, following the curve of her hip and the indent of her waist before settling on her high, full breasts. She released a soft sigh of pleasure when he gave them a gentle squeeze, but Jaime found his own pleasure interrupted by a sudden thought-

_Too high, too firm for a woman of her age._

Jaime tried to study her face, but the light was nowhere near adequate, and the blurriness would likely remain the same even in full daylight. And of course he should have released her, but he stayed where he was as his mind stumbled over attempts at connection-

_Auburn hair, blue eyes...high, firm teats...soft, clear skin..._

He knew who he had then.

Sweet little Sansa Stark...he’d made her blush that afternoon, during the silly little makeshift tourney that he would have normally considered beneath him (but there was so little else to do in this godsforsaken tomb of a castle). He and Cersei had quarreled that morning (he’d wanted her to come with him to the hot springs, and she’d looked at him as though he’d sprouted another head before asking whether he was joking or had truly lost his wits). And in the interest of vexing his sister further, Jaime had dropped to one knee before Ned Stark’s pretty daughter and asked for the honor of her favor. The girl’s lovely face flushed pink as she tied a white and grey handkerchief around his lance and smiled at him as though she’d never seen anything like him before.

Although he could not see her eyes, he imagined them glowing with the same innocent admiration as he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to her soft lips. She responded in kind before combing her little fingers through his hair and drawing him closer. Colors and light and shadow swirled before him- his ears still buzzed, but the sound seemed somehow sweeter- he knew he shouldn’t-  _Cersei, Cersei_ \- but this beautiful, tipsy maiden wanted her knight, and Gods help him, but he wanted whatever this was...

His hand crept beneath her skirts; even through her smallclothes, he could feel her wetness. She uttered a squealing whine, but she allowed him to quiet her with kisses and stroke her through the fabric. When she moaned against his lips, Jaime pulled his hand away and reached behind to grip her arse and pull her into him, the hardness in his breeches rubbing against her in lieu of his fingers. She coiled her arms around his neck and let him push her up the wall, long legs wrapping around his waist. And then burning in his blood, the haze of the drink, the warmth and the want...and he wasn't rubbing anymore, but thrusting, the friction of his breeches against his hard cock enough to make his eyes cross...

And then the girl screamed. Startled, Jaime loosened his grip and stepped away; Sansa slid to the ground and fell to the flagstones in a clumsy pile of skirts. And there was more light, and he could see her eyes widening with fear as she stared at something just behind him-

The Kingslayer turned to face a quartet of men: Ned Stark, the heir, the bastard, and the Greyjoy whelp. Three pairs of eyes- two grey, one blue- fixed him with murderous glares, while Theon Greyjoy stared boldly at the bulge in Jaime’s breeches, an ugly sneer on his pinched little face. 

He could hear Sansa sniffling and weeping behind him as her father and brothers stepped closer, their hands gripping the pommels of their swords. Beside the two boys, a pair of direwolf cubs snarled and growled, white fangs shining as bright as blades.

The next morning, the King calls Jaime before him. He glowers, red-faced with fury, and scarcely waits for Jaime to close the door before launching into a screaming tirade- how could he be so stupid? Didn’t he know how gravely he’d insulted the Starks? What sort of person does such a thing to a maiden so young?

(Jaime thinks that he’s never been so amused in all his life, listening to  _Robert Baratheon_  chide him for dallying with a woman. He sinks his teeth into the inside of his cheek to keep from reeling with laughter.)

After he’s shouted himself hoarse, the King leans forward- Jaime can see the beads of sweat on his brow, the bits of spittle in his beard- and hisses:

“I’ve always known you for an arrogant bastard, Kingslayer, but I somehow never expected you to disgrace me like this.”

_Disgrace? If you only knew the half of it...only knew how many times I’ve taken your wife in your own bed, only knew whose children bear your name..._

It’s all so terribly funny that he’s not sure how much longer he can sustain- only the sight of Cersei, still and quiet and stone-faced behind her husband, keeps the laughter at bay. 

When Robert informs Jaime that Ned Stark insists on avenging his daughter’s honor by fighting a combat to the death, Jaime cannot restrain an incredulous snort.  _I suppose the girl didn’t tell her father how willing she was, then?_  Fibbing to preserve one’s reputation is very un-Stark-like indeed; these northern fools and their lofty ideals, their value of honesty and honor above all else. In spite of it all, he cannot help but feel a strange sort of admiration for Sansa Stark and her blatant self-interest.  _She’d make a fine Lannister_.

Cersei reacts to the combat proposal with far less poise than he might have expected. She appeals to her husband to ignore Stark’s ridiculous terms, to appease the northman’s righteous rage in some other way, to encourage his friend to chastise his little whore of a daughter instead.

At the last, Robert turns on Cersei and strikes the back of his hand over her cheek, ordering her into silence. Jaime steps forward, his hand on his sword- he’s about to fight to the death, after all, what has he to lose? But he catches a barely perceptible head-shake from Cersei, and he forces himself to release the blade. 

Instead, he crosses the room and takes her in his arms, holding her in an embrace just slightly too intimate for a brother and a sister. He can feel Robert Baratheon’s glare boring into the back of his skull as he rocks Cersei in place, murmuring just loudly enough for the King to hear-

“Ned Stark is no match for me, sweet sister. I promise you- there’s no need to fear.”

Ser Jaime Lannister strides out to the Winterfell training field in armor gold as his hair, his white cloak left behind. He’d already come to the decision not to kill Ned Stark- it would be far more satisfying to disarm him, shame him in front of his household and his bannermen, and then deny him the death that his precious honor would demand. 

His audience is more hostile than any he’s encountered before; the northmen spit in his direction while flinging obscenities to and fro, and Robert wears a cruel smile on his face as he watches Jaime’s entrance from the high seat. The only expressions of warmth and concern come from Tyrion, Cersei and the two younger children- Joffrey wears a smirk to match the King’s as he sits in the seat that should be Cersei’s, the one right beside Robert. 

Stark stands at the opposite end of the field with his older sons, his brother, the master-at-arms, and Theon Greyjoy. Jaime feels a current of exhilaration push through his veins when Stark’s steely gaze locks on his own; he’ll get a good fight out of the Lord of Winterfell, and he welcomes the heat of bloodlust.  _It’s been too long...too many tourneys, not enough battle._

Lady Catelyn stands to the side with her two daughters. The littler one bounces up and down on her heels and fidgets with a restless, feral energy. And as for Lady Sansa, she stands still and dignified beside her mother, dressed in overly-modest attire, her hands clasped and her eyes downcast in a perfect display of penitence. 

He wonders whether she would slap him if he were to ask for her favor again. The idea amuses him greatly- but then a better one comes to mind. 

In a series of quick, elegant movements, Jaime crosses to Sansa, slides his hand into her hair, and pulls her in for a long, sensuous, indecent kiss. 

The crowd explodes with raucous hisses and groans and jeers. In his peripherals, Jaime can see Jory Cassel and his men approaching, swords in hand- Sansa’s muscles go rigid with shock, as though she hasn’t the slightest idea what to do...

He pulls away from her just before the Northern knights reach him. She opens her blue eyes impossibly wide, her mouth hanging slightly open, a tell-tale pink blush staining her cheeks.

And with a roguish wink, Jaime shunts Cassel to the side with his shoulder and marches toward a fuming Ned Stark, whistling all the while.  


 


End file.
